Betrayer: (The Cursed Bloodstone Book 1)

“Sol.”

I stop milking Jersa, the cow, the following day, and turn to that familiar voice. I haven’t heard him speak my name in four summers. Four, long summers.

“Malachi.” I straighten and smile at him, taking in his blond hair and his storm-colored eyes.

“So, you do remember me?” Mirth twinkles behind his stare as he grabs a stool, places it opposite me, and sits. “I was beginning to think you didn’t.”

“How could I forget you when you were constantly in my barn when we were children?”

He allows his gaze to rove over the barn we currently sit in. “Kind of like this one.”

“Yes, except…” This one is Bloodstone.

My stomach clenches against the reality of our situation. I’m here to avenge my mother. He’s here to…

I cannot ask, cannot force him to say. Not knowing is better than knowing.

“We’re in Astarobane.” He picks up a piece of straw and twists it between his fingers. “Where everything is different.”

“I know.”

Several moments pass where he doesn’t speak, he just stares beyond my shoulder. When he finds his voice, it’s low, bordered with sadness. “Why did you leave?”

My chest aches at his question. It’s a fair one, and he has every right to ask. One moment, I had been in Lanvilla, the village where we lived. The next, I was gone. I didn’t tell anyone I was planning to go. Not even Malachi.

“I had to.”

Emotions play across Malachi’s face. Emotions that increase the ache in the pit of my stomach. “I thought… Rather, I feared something bad had happened to you. I nearly came undone when I saw you riding into Astarobane with those warriors.”

“I’m sorry, Malachi.” Those words have burned against my tongue enough times. It’s nice to finally say them.

“All is forgiven, Sol.” He offers a reassuring smile. “I am just pleased that you are well.”

“Who is the blonde woman I have seen you with?” I ask as I return to milking Jersa.

“My wife.”

My gaze snaps to Malachi. “You’re married?”

A smile breaks across his mouth. “Why does that surprise you?”

“I just…” I force my hands to keep moving.

Malachi is married. Married.

I keep picturing him at seventeen summers. He was tall, gangly, and gentle. Malachi had always been so gentle.

“How long have you been married?” I ask in a surprisingly normal voice.

He scratches at his jaw. “Six. No, seven months.”

“What is her name?”

“Ella.” Torchlight weaves over his face as he shifts and places his hands against his thighs. “And you’re married to Commander Gabriel.”

I quicken my movements and nod.

“How did that come about?”

“The same way most marriages come about.” I shrug.

“Come now, Sol,” Malachi says. “You forget I know you. You wouldn’t just marry a Bloodstone warrior.”

It’s true.

He knows it. I know it. But I cannot show my cards to anyone. Doing so might mean death.

“And you wouldn’t just marry a Bloodstone woman, yet here we both are.”

Malachi nods after a moment. “I suppose neither of us care to divulge all our secrets.

I finish milking Jersa and stand. “I have no secrets, Mal.”

“From me?” He stands and picks up another piece of straw. “Or from your husband?”

From your husband.

I cringe at that reality. That truth. I am keeping secrets from Gabriel. The kind of secrets a wife should never keep.

But I could never admit these things to Malachi.

It’s my truth, and my truth alone.

I make my way to the front of the barn. Malachi follows and holds the door open for me.

“You don’t have to stay here, you know,” he says, his words low and lined with caution.

My fingers tighten around the terracotta jar. “Yes, I do.”

“There’s something…” His gaze shifts to the left, where he studies the far line of trees beyond the cottage I share with Gabriel.

Alarm brushes against my skin as I follow his stare but discover nothing stirring. At least, not anything I can set my eyes on.

Malachi’s expression shifts, his eyes turn hard, his mouth thins as he offers a smile that never moves beyond his mouth. “Good day, Sol.”

“Wait.” I tighten my grip on the jar and stare up at him. “What are you not saying?”

“Nothing.” He nods and walks away, leaving me to the alarm firing along my skin, the trepidation trembling down my back.

Obviously, something bothered him enough that he sought me out. He was here to warn me.

But of what?

What am I failing to see?

Why is Malachi really here?

He married a Bloodstone woman. That means he’s all in just like me. Whatever drew him here, he cannot say, and I cannot ask.

As I walk to my cottage, I focus on that line of trees, wondering what Malachi had seen that shook him. Whatever it was, it kept him from revealing his real reason for visiting me today.

I must discover it.

That evening, I sit near the fireplace, trying to repair one of my surcoats. The hem ripped while I was working in the barn, and I was too embarrassed to go to Kassandra. She gives me such nice things, and I mess them up. This is the third rip in as little as a week.

Gabriel had kept his word about punishing the people who threw rotten food at Kassandra. Two women were paraded through the streets, and they did spend the day locked in a pillory. One of them was Deborah. The woman I followed through the city.

Her eyes had burned with fury as she hunched there pitifully. I felt no empathy for her plight. Neither did most of the people who walked past.

After being released from the pillory, the woman were removed and forced to spend time in a sweat lodge. Maybe the Bloodstone people thought it would purify their sins.

Gabriel sits next to me, staring into the flames, as he often does. Occasionally, I glance up from my task, studying the solemn man. He always seems so forlorn when he’s sitting there, as if the weight of the world rests solely on his shoulders.

When he’s outside of this cottage, he performs with the best of them. He trains daily. Attends his men. And disappears to his forge.

In here, next to me, he’s different. He’s distant. Serious. Morose. If he weren’t, he wouldn’t stare so intently into those flames with his brow pinched and his mouth tight.

“I made you something.” He reaches to the table next to him and grabs a small dagger.

He pulls the blade free of its leather sheath to reveal the Damascus steel.

“For me?” I ask breathlessly. Nobody has ever made me a weapon before.

It’s small—barely larger than my hand. The grip is overlaid with twisted steel wire.

He slips it back into its sheath and holds it out to me. “This one is small enough to hide on your body.”

“Gabriel.” I take the dagger, tug it from its guard, and stare at the wavy design on the steel. “It’s incredible.”

He shrugs.

“No.” Warmth settles in my chest as I return the dagger to its casing. “You are talented.”

“It’s just a dagger.” He reaches for his goblet of mint tea and takes a drink.

“It’s an incredible weapon. There are no bends. No weaknesses.”

He stands and places his goblet next to the basin. “Good night.”

“Wait.” I stand next to him and resist the strong urge to throw my arms around him. “Thank you.”

Those silver-blue eyes meet mine for a breath. Then, he nods and walks away, leaving me with the incredible gift. I stare down at the dagger. It’s one of the finest blades I have ever seen.

Thank you, Gabriel.